


Wonderful, Wonderful People

by heartnervesinew



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Romance, Sad, epiphany styles style, school au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartnervesinew/pseuds/heartnervesinew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So everything else got shoved under the rug, and Harry didn’t care. He just tried to deal with it because that’s what he did. And sometimes, under the right circumstances, he can delude himself into believing that that’s how he’d have it, that he doesn’t wish he was better off or different, that he’s fine with how things are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonderful, Wonderful People

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Possible triggers, see end-notes for specifics.  
> Tumblr: heartnervesinew.tumblr.com
> 
> Hi there, again! Another thing that I had saved up. I'm really not kidding when I say that the majority of whatever I write happens when I haven't had much sleep. Weird habit.
> 
> The feedback I got for Swells really was tremendous. I did not expect it in the least, and I love all of you guys seriously so much for humoring me the way that you do.
> 
> I hope you like this. :)

Occasionally, Harry has a moment of clarity.

They used to be few and far-between, but lately, he’s been getting that crunch in his spine, that tickle in his diaphragm, those wise emotions that remind him _you ain’t shit_.

He used to think that part was harsh, but now it’s like a warm hello and thank-you, it keeps him company, and after all of these years, he likes company.

Constancy.

He’s wide-eyed and open-mouthed as he takes in the brochures spread out across his bed.

He’d only gone for a jog, but he flips out his phone to find a message from his mother.

_Took the initiative and found some schools for you to apply to._

Which is nice of her, he guesses. He never would have gotten around to it otherwise.

He flips open his computer. He picks up the one closest to his knees, scrambles it open to find a website address, and then he applies to that school.

When he’s done, he can’t even remember where he’s applied, he just knows he did, and that’ll be enough for his mother.

 

The first week of school, he spends all of his time outside of class puttering around in a rocking chair by the library. He doesn’t really care that he looks like the biggest fucking loser of all time because he doesn’t really care about anything.

He texts people occasionally. Mostly his mother.

He downloaded the kindle app onto his phone. Sometimes he finds things of interest there.

Occasionally he naps, and that’s also fun.

He notices a group of boys eventually gather in the field not far from his line of sight, and they always play footie together, like that’s all there is to fucking do at this place or something.

And he really likes playing football. He’s not great at it, but he used to play for his school’s team like _eight_ years ago or something, back when he had motivation.

When the ball flies out of bounds once or twice a week or minute, Harry catches it before it can smash into his face and throws it back, yelling somewhat seriously, “You ain’t shit!”

But like really he doesn’t mean it that much, just a bit.

One of them laughed pretty hard when he yelled it (he’s only yelled it once, dreads repetition), and he takes that to mean that none of them really took him seriously, and that’s so infuriating he walks down the street and picks up a pack of fags because he thinks people with low self-esteem smoke, or maybe that’s just him making stereotypes, but he’s seen enough films where the sad characters smoke, and he thinks that if he’s going to be sad, he’s going to be a sad character.

 

The next day, when the ball rolls toward him, Harry just looks at it. He doesn’t make a move to get it because he’s in _the middle of smoking a cigarette, please_ , and he really can’t be bothered.

A boy with an abnormally large quiff wanders over his way, and he eyes Harry likes he’s rampant and explosive. “Do you ever go anywhere else other than the library’s front garden?” he asks pointedly.

“No, not really,” Harry replies back honestly. “Do you lot?”

The boy rolls his eyes but smirks. “You’re fucking weird.”

He jogs back to the other boys and they resume their game.

 

Harry oversleeps and misses half his classes one day, and from that he decides to skip the rest.

He doesn’t go to the rocking chair by the library, but when he does the next day, one of the boys, the lanky one, yells at him, “We thought you’d died, rocking chair boy!”

Another boy punches him in the arm for saying that. Harry raises his eyebrow at that comment but otherwise doesn’t really care.

 

The one with the enormous quiff isn’t there for football one day, and a boy with blonde hair wakes Harry up and asks him to play.

“It’ll be fun,” he says.

Harry sincerely doubts that, but he humors them.

He lights up another cigarette, mostly for the effect, and puffs on that delicately.

The lanky one emits a laugh. Harry feels like he’s earned it.

At the end of their makeshift match, a boy with a puppy-dog face tells him he isn’t half bad.

“I’m not shit,” Harry replies.

He looks confused. “That’s what I just said—“

But Harry doesn’t pursue that particular road anymore because he doesn’t think anybody with that sweet a face could cope with somebody openly disregarding so massively their own self-worth.

“You’re pretty good,” Harry settles for.

 

The next semester, Harry takes a lot of bullshit classes because he doesn’t have a clue what kind of a degree he wants; why not figure it out with a bowling elective?

He doesn’t tell his mother that. She probably wouldn’t be thrilled.

He doesn’t have a class with anybody he knows because, surprise, surprise, he didn’t really make any friends last semester, but every Friday if he’s running late to his bullshit music appreciation class (which he pretty much always is), he’ll run into the lanky one, and after four weeks of this routine, he actually learns his name.

“Have you actually got a name?” he inquires. “Because mine’s Louis. I’m a third year.”

And Harry doesn’t actually give a single flying fuck, but he humors him. “I’m Harry.”

“Awkward freshmen?” Louis asks pointedly.

“Obviously,” Harry replies.

 

In mid-March, Harry considers himself. It’s the twelfth. He’s barely nineteen, so in less than a year, he’ll be twenty, and he’s got pretty much next to nothing to show for it.

And he thinks, well, yeah, he could just go out and do something with his time, with his _life_ , but he’s not good at much. He’s pretty much sure he’s failing his bowling class, even, and if that doesn’t just speak plenty about his overall self-worth as a human being, then what else will?

So he tried to kill himself that night.

 

He failed. Obviously.

He’s lying in his bed at home three days later, the hospital having just released him, and he hears his mother sobbing downstairs, and if that just _isn’t the worst_.

He resolves to suffer the misery in silence.

 

His mother makes him stay at home the rest of the week and then another week after that because really, she’s a great mum, top-notch if she’s getting a grade, but after he convinces her that he’s fine, really, he’ll see a doctor at school, but he’ll fail the semester if he doesn’t get back (not a lie), she drives him back to campus, and that’s that.

 

He doesn’t go back to the library chair all that next week, but on Friday, he runs into Louis.

“Where’ve you been, rocking chair boy? The ball’s gone out of bounds every day, we needed you!” Louis laughs and jokes, because from what Harry can tell, Louis has got a good head on his shoulders. His parents might be a right mess or they could be royalty, it doesn’t matter, because he’s a good kid, and he’ll probably do well with his future.

Harry’s not jealous, just kind of curious, like, what’s the inherent difference between the two of them?

“Yeah, I tried to off myself… tragic,” Harry says, and he’s not surprised that Louis doesn’t take him seriously at first. He’s still got that glittering smile on his face, a smile which quickly falters as he notices the hesitancy from Harry.

“Wait… really?”

Harry nodded honestly.

“Oh, shit, mate. That’s… wow, that’s—“

“I’m mostly better now, you’ve not got to panic or anything,” Harry told him, his voice still relatively calm and relaxed. He wasn’t a timid kid, he just recognized that his being constantly worried over things that didn’t really matter didn’t really matter.

“Do you want to talk it over?” Louis asks sincerely. “I’m a great listener—“

“I’m with the one woman up in student services, it’s really alright. But yeah, thanks for the concern—“

“Here,” Louis says, pulling something from his pocket. A blue marker. He takes Harry’s hand and begins to write numbers across the top of it.

“Your number?” Harry asks, looking it over, letting it dry before he touches it.

“Avoid stupid things,” Louis told him. “Call me whenever!”

And Harry doesn’t know how that happened, how he went from being that _awkward freshmen_ who watched the other kids play games in the field to that _awkward freshmen_ who had the older kids worried about his livelihood.

He shrugged.

Unusual.

 

He texts his mum later that night, that someone he sort of knows offered their ears up for listening services. He only told her to reassure her that she wouldn’t get a heartbreaking phone call, and it seemed to work.

 

Harry thinks that people are supposed to care if people think they’re delicate and dangerous, but that’s not a quality Harry’s had lately. He’s not even cautious anymore, which wrecks him up sometimes, occasionally, but like, the simplest form of clarity he experienced was that disheartening realization that _he ain’t shit_ , and like, he wasn’t going to fight that. So everything else got shoved under the rug, and Harry didn’t care. He just tried to deal with it because that’s what he did.

And sometimes, under the right circumstances, he can delude himself into believing that that’s how he’d have it, that he doesn’t wish he was better off or different, that he’s fine with how things are.

 

Dr. Pigeon is a nice lady from student services with more degrees than Harry will ever aspire to have, and it’s good talking to her because Harry gets the feeling she always knew what she wanted from her life, whereas Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever have a clue.

He told her that once.

“What have you done?” she asked.

“Not much,” he replied honestly.

“Do different things,” she advised. “You never know.”

And yeah, Harry supposes he never will know.

 

Harry feels bland most of the time is the problem. He feels like the tape put onto the edges of things when you paint it, and then you paint over the tape, and then the tape gets tossed into the garbage bin. He feels like no matter what he does differently, he’ll always feel bland, and nothing will change that.

And half the time, when he’s not under the right circumstances, he’ll wish there was someone or something that made him care more than before, but he doesn’t want to become that sad, lost soul who depends on someone or something for happiness.

But like obviously, he isn’t happy, so he wonders when he’ll cave.

 

By the end of April, Harry thinks he’ll go off for a weekend and find something interesting to do.

He legitimately has no clue what people do for fun, anymore.

Obviously not bowling.

He’s never been one for nature hikes.

Writing poetry is a road he’ll never want to cross.

He texted Louis, the lanky kid with stripy shirts and not much football talent, what it was he did for fun.

_Honestly?_ Louis replies. _I get drunk and embarrass myself._

And Harry doesn’t even know what to do with that.

What does Louis think, that Harry’s in a position to just drink? Who would he drink with? Where would he go? His room at school? That’s embarrassing, maybe that’s what Louis had in mind.

But then Louis sends a second message along, something with details of a “large get-together” a few streets away, and Harry’s about to politely decline when he thinks, well, why the fuck not. What else is he going to do with his time?

 

One expression in particular that Harry’s mum likes to use when mothering him is that he’s essentially “skin and bones”. He can’t particularly help it, and he doesn’t care enough to change anything. He’s always just been one of those types that ate when he wanted to. Keeping that in mind, Harry likes drinking – he’d never really done it seriously before, just wine and champagne when good things happened – and he likes what it does for him. And the lighter you are, apparently the more alcohol affects you.

Right now, for instance, he’s not drunk, but he’s chipper.

“Thanks for inviting me!” he says at a point to Louis when he runs into him an hour in. Harry’s made attempts at conversation with lots of people by this point, and he supposes that come tomorrow a few faces might smile if they saw him, say a few kind words, acknowledge him.

Louis looks a bit surprised that Harry’s as talkative as he is. His eyebrows do a little dance, and his lips frown in confusion for nearly a split second before he grins and laughs it off.

“I’m glad you could make it!” he says back cheerily, and regardless as to whether or not he means it, Harry really doesn’t care.

He likes feeling like this.

 

Another hour goes by, and Harry slinks into the kitchen, finished mingling for the time being with the people in the living room. He grabs a glass from the sink, fills it with water, and downs it immediately.

“Still alive?” a familiar voice shouts over the music.

Harry smiles sloppily. “Bit drunk,” he replies, turning to face Louis and the blonde one.

“What a coincidence!” the blonde one says. “Although to be fair, I’ve been drunk since this morning.”

“Niall’s a borderline alcoholic,” Louis informs Harry jokingly.

“Am not!”

“Are you enjoying yourself, at least?” Louis directs at Harry again, and Harry wonders if he detects a serious undertone in his voice.

“Yeah, this is—this is loads better than sleeping,” Harry tells him. “But I think I might get out soon…. Don’t want to be that kid that throws up everywhere and then falls asleep in the garden, you know?”

“ _I_ know,” the blonde one tells him.

Louis nods fervently in agreement. “No, yeah, of course. You should come out more often—“

“I—how about this,” Harry cuts him off, quickly opening each drawer after the next until he found a green marker amongst a pile of napkins. “Next time something happens, tell me about it? I promise you I won’t be doing anything—“

And he wrote his phone number on the sweaty skin over Louis’s knuckles, the digits a little crooked and uneven as the alcohol in Harry’s blood shook his fingers ever-so slightly; it didn’t even occur to him that Louis probably still had his number from earlier. If it had, he didn’t imagine that he would have cared very much.

“Of—of course, Harry, yeah—“

Harry smiled, patted the blonde kid on the head, and then ducked out the back door.

           

When Harry wakes up, his head doesn’t really hurt, but his muscles are sluggish, and he’s never been so grateful not to have class on Sundays.

He glances at his phone for the time (half past twelve) and sees a text message.

_You’re chatty when you drink_ , Louis sent him half an hour ago. _It’s nice._

_Maybe I’ll drink more,_ Harry tells him.

 

Sometimes Harry sits in his room and thinks what happened in his life to make him such a loose cannon, something so incredibly and desperately misery-bound. He’s got a good life, a good family. He’s not got any extenuating issues regarding his physical health. He bets he’d be a good statistic for the perfect teenager if he wasn’t so mental.

He’s just not interested in much.

And the things he likes he’s not good at.

 

In the middle of that week, Louis texts him. It’s blunt and to the point, but Harry doesn’t find himself minding.

_Why’d you try to kill yourself, anyway?_

Harry blinks a bit rapidly before typing back the honest to God truth. _Dunno. I guess I get bored too easily._

_You tried to kill yourself because you were bored?_

_It’s complicated._

And Louis doesn’t say anything to that at first, and Harry thinks the conversation is over with, but right as Harry’s about to take a nice mid-afternoon nap, his phone buzzes back to life.

_What are you doing right now?_

And Harry tells him, _Nothing. Might nap._

_You can sleep when you’re dead. Meet me by the library? We’re going for a swim_

It was followed up with _Oh god, I hope that wasn’t insensitive_ several seconds later.

Harry doesn’t think he even owns clothes for swimming with, and he doesn’t even know where Louis plans on going, but he grabs his room key and leaves, anyway.

 

They drive in Louis’s car twenty minutes north until he pulls off into the woods. They’re at a lake front, and the ground is littered with beer cans and cigarette ends.

“I come here with the boys sometimes. It’s always good for fun,” Louis tells him, shucking off his clothes.

The water’s shaded, the sun on the opposite side of the trees, and Harry wonders for all of fifteen seconds whether or not it’s cold before Louis jumps in, a shriek on his lips as soon as he resurfaces.

“ _Bloody fucking freezing!”_ he moans. “Fucking English weather is shit, isn’t it?”

And Harry’s kind of amused by that sentiment, just a bit, because he’s not used to something else _being shit_ , and that’s all it really takes for him to jump in after him.

And Harry thinks, yeah, it _is_ bloody fucking freezing.

 

Neither of them thought to bring towels, so when they jump into Louis’s car not long after, they’re both dripping wet, their thin clothes not doing much to dry them off.

Louis turns the heat on as high as it will go, and Harry rolls down the window to shake his hair off outside. Louis lets loose a loud laugh at that because, for some reason Harry’s not even sure of, everything is so much funnier than it really should be.

“You look like a soggy cat,” Louis informs him.

Harry doesn’t mind in the least. Just smiles.

 

_You should get out more,_ Louis texts him later that night after Harry’s showered the lake out of his hair and the wrinkles off of his skin.

_You’re telling me_ , he replies.

 

Harry returns to the rocking chair the Monday following for the first time in weeks, and it’s lovely, really, because Louis and his other friends are there playing football when he arrives, and it’s like nothing’s changed, except that some things have, because even though Harry’s still utterly bored with life and doesn’t feel good at very much, he isn’t compelled to sleep nearly as often as before.

“Rocking chair boy!” Louis calls when he sees him, and Harry nods, grins, pulls out a cigarette.

And it’s kind of funny, actually, because even though all four of the boys are there and they clearly don’t need him, they ask if he wants to play.

Harry doesn’t respond for a second or two before he remembers he hasn’t got anything else better to do, why the fuck not?

He nods, still grinning, cigarette still between his lips.

 

Harry had never noticed it before, but the one with the nice hair also smokes, and when they’re done playing, he walks with Harry towards his building.

“I didn’t know you lived here, too,” Harry tells him.

“I have a feeling there’s a lot you miss,” he replies, laughing good-naturedly.

Harry kind of has to agree with him on that one.

 

He plays football every day that week except for on Friday, and that’s only because it rained so hard the grass melted into mud and the five of them decided they’d rather die than play a game of football.

Louis winced a bit at that, but Harry shakes his head, mumbles that it’s alright, squeezes Louis’s wrist almost as if to say, _look, see, I don’t care, I’m fine_.

He means it, too, and that surprises Harry when he first realizes it.

 

Louis has taken to text messaging Harry every morning. Harry isn’t sure when this started, and he’s sure if he really cared to pinpoint a date he could just scroll through his message history, but he finds that he’s simply pleased to have someone interested in whether or not he makes it to his morning classes on time, someone who cares about his well-being. He doesn’t complain. This is nice.

_Good morning, sunshine xx_

_It’s half eleven, Lou_

Things go on much like that.

Harry finds he’s smiling to himself a lot more, and that cheers him up.

He still feels strange from time to time, like that same dark cloud is throwing shadows out beside him and makes it all stuffy and humid outside, but he thinks more often now that if in two months time after swallowing a bottle of pills he can go to his bowling class and make jokes at his professor for his horrible bowties or hit on the nice old lady who scans his card in the dining hall, things might be spectacular next semester or next summer.

It’s like, after all this time, he finally figured out what he was missing out on, the whole being happy thing, and now that he’s got it, even just a little bit of it, he can’t imagine letting it go anytime soon.

 

He meets Louis for tea one afternoon when the trees are still dripping with last night’s rain and it’s too cold for May. Harry tugs off his sweater when he steps into Louis’s flat, throws it on the couch like he lives there.

Louis hands him a mug, complains a bit about the mud outside because he _hates_ it, grabs a banana from the counter in his kitchen, asks him how his day was.

Harry wasn’t planning on doing so, but before he really could put his thoughts together, he kisses Louis.

It’s just that, in that moment, he imagined a few years down the road, when Harry had his mind put back together, and maybe he’d live in a flat a lot like this one, and his clothes would be everywhere, and he’d complain about the mud and other trivial things like that because there wouldn’t be much else to complain about, nothing worth the time or effort, at least, and maybe Lou would be there, too, and Harry would hand him a mug of tea, and it didn’t matter what either of them got their degrees in, and it didn’t matter that Harry _wasn’t shit_ at football, and it didn’t matter that occasionally he got so bored he wanted to literally kill himself. There were bigger and better things he wanted to concern himself with.

Louis’s lips were nice. Tasted like tea and bananas.

Harry leaned back, opened his eyes.

Louis grinned at him. “Good tea?”

“The best,” Harry replied.

 

By the end of May, with finals just around the corner, Harry’s curious how he ended up like this, treading the chilly lake water just beyond the trees, four people he didn’t know a year ago splashing algae into his mouth.

He catches Louis’s eye at one point. He doesn’t say anything, just sort of smiles a smile, like he’s grateful almost, which he is, and he thinks that Louis gets it.

Louis swims his way over to him, and Harry can feel the water moving where Louis’s legs are kicking to stay afloat. Louis puts his hands around Harry’s bare shoulders, digs his nails in sort of gently, and his eyes are holding something mischievous in them.

Harry should have known.

He should have known Louis would just push him under, laughing as he did so.

And Harry thinks, no, it doesn’t work like that, you’re going down with me.

Underwater he wraps his arms around Louis’s middle, dragging him down, and Harry seriously doesn’t care that he’s swallowing down the dirt and dust in the grimy lake water because laughter used to be so hard to come by, and he knows this isn’t going to kill him. Nothing’s going to kill him.

 

Harry doesn’t know quite when it happened, when things turned around for him, when things _changed_ , but he doesn’t sit around and mope over his sorrows anymore, not even just a little bit, and he’ll sometimes have to stop, take a breather, and relax for a moment or two because there is literally so much going on in the world, so much going on with his life, and he’s busy now, he’s got plans made for weeks at a time, he forgets what he’s supposed to do every now and then because his brain is running so much faster than it ever has before.

He’s got options, and he likes it.

 

Louis follows Harry back to his room when they get back to school, and they’re both so exhausted they don’t even think about showering.

Harry brushes the damp curls out of his eyes, kicks off his shoes, falls onto the mattress. He doesn’t care that he’ll have to wash the sheets later. There are more important things going on than the trivial nonsense that used to preoccupy his mind.

Louis pushes Harry over with his hands before falling in next to him.

“Bored, rocking chair boy?” Louis asks, taking his left leg and wrapping it around Harry’s right.

“Not in the slightest,” Harry says.

“I’m glad you’re shit at killing yourself,” Louis says quietly, closing his eyes.

Harry nods slowly, lips tugging up at the corners, eyes falling shut as well. “Me, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Possible Triggers: Attempted Suicide
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Please comment if you'd like to. :)


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